Page 36 of Knot Your Business

I mess with my shirt, obsessing over how it’s laying against my stomach. Rylan catches my hand.

“Stop,” he says, more bite in his tone than before. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

I pause, focusing on him instead of my fidgeting. “I know.”

He nods. “Good.” He blows out a breath. “Sorry, I just don’t want you panicking over anything that I can help you avoid.”

“I’ve worked really hard to love my body,” I say, forcing myself to stop messing with my shirt since it bothers him. “Especially since living in LA. I’m not sure there’s another city that detests fat bodies more than this one. You don’t have to worry about whether or not I’m obsessing about it. Messing with clothes is just one of my nervous habits.”

“I don’t want you to be nervous,” he says, his voice dropping into a low croon. Fuck, that has my body reacting in all kinds of ways. I force a swallow to try and stay focused. “Just remember we’ll leave at any point, all right?”

When I nod, he starts toward the car—something I can tell is expensive, though I don’t recognize the brand emblem. I’m just about calmed down when I realize who’s sitting behind the driver’s seat. Jasper’s gaze glances down me once, quick and impersonal, as Rylan guides me into the passenger seat.

He doesn’t offer a word as Rylan closes the back door and we start toward the bar.

Seventeen

VIOLET

Jasper leads us into the bar as Rylan laces his fingers with mine, walking close enough to me that my shoulder brushes with his biceps every few steps. The place is dark and yet bright, neon lights from over twenty different pinball tables casting odd shadows on everything in the large room. The bar sits in the middle of the room, chairs lining three sides of it, and there are a few round tables tucked into one of the sides as well.

Jasper walks toward one of those, not saying a word to me or Rylan, his hands shoved into his pockets. It’s frustrating how good he looks in the black t-shirt and light blue jeans. Rylan grunts beside me before taking my hand.

“Those jeans look good on his ass,” he mutters after a moment. Citrus surrounds us, Rylan’s attraction obvious to anyone who’s paying attention.

The truth falls from me before I can pull it back. “Yeah, they do.”

“Rylan, I swear to God, if you keep her sequestered at the bar, we will riot.” A woman with brown hair calls from the group along the wall, her hands cupped over her mouth so her voice carries over the din of the games.

“That,” Rylan says, voice dry, “is Huntley.”

He doesn’t make any move to encourage us toward the table of people. After a minute, the woman jumps up, climbing over another guy at the table, and closes the distance between us.

“Hi, I’m Huntley,” she says, holding out her hand. When I take it, she smiles. “We’ve been trying to get the guys to bring you around all week. We were starting to think maybe we imagined the councilwoman dropping off the packet. Jasper hasn’t shown us a picture or anything.”

She’s quick and to the point, her words almost running over top of each other without quite managing. Her gaze is shrewd as she looks over Rylan, her eyebrow slowly rising in offended question. Rylan’s warning of not telling her what he said makes sense.

I already like her.

Hasn’t shown us a picture.

I tense, not able to control the stab that sentence causes to my heart. He’s still not interested in me. Whatever has happened over the last four years, his thinking I’m not enough for him still exists. Rylan growls, low in his throat, reacting to my sudden change in demeanor, but Huntley doesn’t seem to hear it.

Another of the group closes the distance, his smile easy. He slings a hand over Huntley’s shoulders.

“To be fair, you practically ripped Jasper’s phone out of his hand in September when he hesitated in showing you a picture of Dominic,” he says.

Huntley rolls her eyes. Something untangles just a fraction at that bit of information.

The man holds out his hand, and I take it the same way I did Huntley’s.

“I’m Mason. You want something to drink?”

Rylan’s growl this time is loud enough for both of the others to notice.

“Mason, honestly, you should know better than to say something like that to a claimed Omega.” Yet another person joins us.

This woman is short, just an inch taller than me, though she’s also sprightly. Her dark hair looks black in the light and falls to her hips, her brown eyes large. Her smile is wide as she approaches me. A bond scar reflects in the neon lights, highlighting where it sits in the crevice where her shoulder meets her neck.

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